


Gone Fishing

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's fulfilling prophecies, messing with fairies, standing around in the rain, and driving Sam crazy. Same old same old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Fishing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/profile)[ **elizah_jane**](http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/) 's prompt "rainy day" for [](http://community.livejournal.com/silverbullets/profile)[ **silverbullets**](http://community.livejournal.com/silverbullets/)  .

  
“So let me get this straight. We got around the destiny where I was supposed to be Michael’s angel condom and kill you in an apocalyptic battle, but we can’t avoid the one where I have to wade?”

It’s a dismal New England day, more like November than August, alternating chilling drizzle with drenching downpour. Playing bait in a muddy pond does sound unappealing. It would be nice if Dean were ranking it more decisively above cosmic fratricide in his scale of things, but maybe it’s good that he’s making jokes about that stuff now. Or maybe not, knowing Dean and jokes. Sam lets it go.

“Sorry, dude. But you’re the one who can see fairies. And the prophecy . . .”

“Prophecy, my ass. Some little girl’s third grade story.”

“A girl who grew up to be the most respected psychic in the Northeast. The prophecy said, and I quote: _The man was very handsome. He had green eyes and a shiny black car. He was very brave and he killed the nasty fairy in the pond. Although his brother was really the brains of the operation._ ”

“You made that last bit up.”

“It’s there if you read between the lines. Anyway, Dean, this thing’s been drowning people for half a century. You know you’re going to try.”

Dean sighs gustily, probably more at the heinous imputation that he’s a good person who doesn’t want innocents dying than at the thought of a few hours of hypothermia. It’s exhausting, sometimes, watching Dean make low self-esteem an art form. Trying to dose him with worth is like pilling a cat. He swallows the catnippy snark and spits out the medicine.

OK, the simile may have gotten away from Sam a bit. Still.

“Do I have to do it in the rain?” Dean’s asking now, in his put-on sulky voice.

“It’s a water sprite, it likes water. You used to go fishing, right? Standing around in the rain, hoping fish will mistake the raindrops for bugs or something. Hoping they’ll make the guy dangling string in a river look smart by comparison. This can be, like, your hobby hunt.”

“You know, I can incorporate the killing you element into a whole range of destinies.”

“A threat from the man who competes with fish for IQ points is a threat indeed.”

“That does it, wise guy. You’re coming with. You can, like, hold shit for me and entertain me.”

Bingo. No way is Dean going out there alone, even if Sam won’t be able to see the damn thing. He can at least haul his idiot hero brother out by the jacket if he starts to drown.

“I’m glad you appreciate my powers of entertainment,” he says.

“I appreciate your power of carrying things. Which is an important contribution. I don’t want you selling yourself short here.”

“What is it that I’m carrying, anyway?”

“A silver fish spear.”

“It’s scary that we own one of those. It’s like the Martha Stewart school of hunting. For formal hunts, the silver fish spear must always be placed to the left of the bronze djinn knife.”

“It’s scarier that you think like Martha Stewart.”

The pond is a dismal place, surrounded by a squelching zone of mud and sad reeds. It’s hard to see why anyone ever gets close enough to be pulled under by something. Maybe it’s pretty in nice weather. Maybe the sprite puts out some kind of glamour when it’s dealing with people who aren’t stupid enough to just walk into a pond in the rain. They leave their shoes on the shore and slosh through muddy shallows till they’re knee deep. Dean scans the water. Sam watches fat drops form in the spikes of Dean’s hair and drip down his face.

“Sam?” says Dean after a while.

“Yeah?

“Do you know how to get leeches off someone?”

“I hope that’s a purely abstract thirst for knowledge. I think you’re supposed to burn them with a cigarette, then they let go.”

“You might want to consider taking up smoking. Just in case.”

“No one could keep a cigarette lit in this weather. I vote we skip the leeches.”

“Seems like a pond hunt should have leeches, is all.”

Dean’s probably perfectly sincere in that, too. His sense of artistic completeness is maybe even more irritating than the stubborn heroism and compulsive low self-esteem. Sam edges a little closer, well within grabbing distance. They’re both starting to shiver.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?” says Sam again. He wouldn’t want Dean to think he wasn’t taking his duties as entertainer seriously.

“Why don’t we have umbrellas, anyway?”

“They impede a quick draw. They don’t go with our badass image. That, and we keep losing them.”

“ _You_ keep losing them. Remember I had that umbrella with a swordstick . . .”

“For God’s sake, Dean, that was five years ago. And I left it in the body of a hydra that was trying to kill you. Don’t you think it’s time you let go of the incident and moved on with your life?”

Dean grunts noncommittally, then sneezes. “God, I’m cold,” he says, “And bored. You’re not being very fucking entertaining.”

Sam moves closer again, so he’s right behind Dean, lined up with him. Close enough that he can feel a faint nimbus of warmth, even through Dean’s soaked jacket. Cautiously he settles his arms around his brother, not so tight that Dean can’t move fast if he has to, not pinning his spear arm. Dean stiffens for a moment, then leans back infinitesimally. Sam ducks his chin against Dean’s neck. The rain is beating against Sam’s shoulderblades, but his front and Dean’s back are warming up nicely, a contained plane of shelter.

No one’s told Sam much, always walking on eggshells around the damned wall, but he knows. Knows he let Dean get taken, last time they had a run in with the fairies, let him get taken and didn’t care enough to get him back. Not this time. Dean’s got to kill the fucking thing, because he won’t live with himself if there’s another drowning, but he’s not getting out of Sam’s reach while he does it. Sam tightens his hold just a little.

Dean coughs. Not cold, this time, this is Dean’s _pro forma_ protest cough.

“Dude, are you cuddling me?” he says.

“You said you were cold,” says Sam.

“I didn’t say I wanted to take up pond-cuddling.”

Sam noses at the back of Dean’s neck. He smells of cold rain and warm skin.

“Are you _nuzzling_ me?” says Dean. This time there’s real indignation in his voice.

“You said you were bored,” says Sam.

“Sam,” says Dean with exaggerated patience, “I know I’m irresistible and all, but there is a time and a place. Hunt? Evil pond fairy? Ringing a bell?”

“If we let it think we’re distracted, maybe it will get its ass in gear and attack already,” argues Sam, because it’s a good plan and because now he’s getting started he wants to go on kissing Dean. He nibbles at the outer shell of Dean’s ear, and, holy shit, it _was_ a good plan, because there’s a geyser of muddy water and a screech like some mutant seabird and Dean goes down, something is tugging him out of Sam’s grip. Sam hauls desperately at his jacket and Dean comes back to his feet, kicking and staggering as he breaks away from something. He’s leveling the fish spear at a point two feet or so above the surface. There’s nothing there, no matter how hard Sam looks.

“Ugly son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, more a professional assessment than aesthetic judgment. He sloshes around in a careful circle, squaring off against whatever it is Sam can’t see. Sam hovers helplessly, resisting the urge to do something asinine like get in Dean’s way by lunging uselessly at empty air. The water roils again, and Dean feints to one side, a rip opening in the sleeve of his jacket. He jabs with the spear, and there’s another of those shrieks. Then there’s a kind of sucking sound and a small whirlpool and the afternoon goes dead quiet.

“Damn,” says Dean.

“What happened?” Sam asks, trying to get Dean to let him look at his arm, see if whatever it is got skin as well as cloth.

“It ducked back through,” says Dean. “I winged it, but it doesn’t live in the pond. This is just, like, a gate. I think . . .” he pauses for a moment, frowning, looking around at the rain-dimpled water and the reeds like he’s seeing a whole different landscape.

“Hold this,” he says abruptly, and he shoves the salt they always carry in their pockets into Sam’s hands. “What?” Sam begins to say, but Dean says, “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” and he half twists, half dives sideways and vanishes.

“Shit,” says Sam, then, “DEAN!” as loud as he can, but it won’t do any good. Because his goddamned fairy-touched brother has followed the thing right back home. And there’s no way Sam can follow him in turn. He has to stand there, shivering and stupid, while the rain counts out seconds and then minutes and Dean’s gone.

When he reappears in a flurry of splashes maybe five eternities later, teeth bared and hand clutching at something while his other hand drives the spear home, he’s damn lucky Sam doesn’t finish the job and drown him himself. He should, he really should. Instead he drags Dean out of the water, pounds on his back till he coughs up what seems like half the pond, then grabs him by the jacket and shakes him. Hard.

“You’re a stupid idiot,” he says harshly, “Trying to follow that thing, how am I supposed to get you back if you do that? What if I don’t get you back? Damn it, Dean. You’re a fucking moron,” and this time he means every word of it, no fond insults here, no building Dean up under pretense of tearing him down, because Dean’s got no right, he’s got no fucking right to throw himself away like that.

Dean coughs, spits out more water, sags back exhaustedly against Sam’s chest. He pats vaguely at Sam’s hands where they’re clutching his jacket.

“It’s OK, it’s dead,” he says, he says, his voice wrecked. “It’s dead and I’m here. We can go.”

“I still don’t see anything,” says Sam. But he lets his grip relax a bit, and Dean staggers to his feet.

“That’s because you’re useless. Trust me, it’s dead. It’s an even worse look on it than alive was.”

Sam takes a shuddering breath and stands up, mopping at his face. No way Dean will be able to tell if he's wiping off anything more than rainwater.

“All right, then,” he says “Let’s get back to the room and get dry.”

“I killed the evil fairy,” says Dean, “I get the first shower.”

  
They’re so wet that their clothes stick to them like they’re glued on, and it’s taking forfucking ever just to get undressed. They get distracted halfway through, because it’s hard work, even helping each other, and kissing is easier.

“Kenya Talbot, that psychic,” Dean says, working his way down Sam’s collarbone, then striking out a path for his left nipple, “She was pretty into me, huh?”

“When she was _nine_ , Dean. When she’d never met you. Now she’s forty and she’s got a partner named Kathleen who’s a software designer and, like, owns an island. I think she’s over you.”

“Good thing you’re not.”

“Because I was never under you.”

“Now that’s a bare-faced lie, Sammy. You want me to quote some of what you said last time you were under me? But I get it, I do. It’s not your fault you can’t resist the handsome man with green eyes.”

“Shut up.”

“And the shiny black car.”

“Shut up.”

“I was very brave, Sam. I killed the nasty fairy.”

“Shut up,” says Sam again, but he’s grinning. Grinning because it’s one of those moments when Dean sounds just a bit like he means it, like he knows he did a good thing. Like he knows Sam knows it. And Dean’s annoying as hell, cocky boasts and stupid heroism and crippling self-esteem issues and anti-cuddling campaigns and yen for leeches and fucking quests to fairyland and all, but he’s worth it. And he should goddamn know that. Sam pulls him closer, kisses him again, pushes him back towards the bed. He’s going to drive the point home.  



End file.
